Somebody sell me a bear.
Something bulky and toothy
with attitude to burn.
I want to go raiding
and I need to borrow its heart
for a time.

Fill me up with Bruin,
that shaggy source of ruin;
give me a path to follow
into the scared core of the enemy —
 
I’ve got cash and credit
and the willingness to use it.

I’ve got the right mentality
which lets me think I can buy
berserker
whatever it costs.

So someone sell me a bear.
Something I can control
and sic on the others I face.
Something a bear isn’t.
Something I’m not.
Everything is for sale,
even that.

An explosion
of consciousness
in the middle of the night
as I stir and find myself
suddenly:

all the previous day’s events
rattling, then tumbling
into a mess of unintended angles
and dust.

The blitz
in me
drives me from bed to couch

where I sit
and stare into the reverberation
until I’ve spent an hour
dead awake, waiting for more bombshells;

then I head back to bed
where I lie back
and think of old London
alive though devastated,
waiting for its chance
to build again.